


Election Eve

by sheafrotherdon



Series: Nantucket AU [51]
Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-11-03
Updated: 2008-11-03
Packaged: 2017-10-11 22:44:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/117968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sheafrotherdon/pseuds/sheafrotherdon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They go to bed early, November 3 – John's working the polls next morning at 6am, and Rodney's driving old people to vote, a situation that is so completely insane Rodney hasn't stopped talking about it ever since the twenty-year old "flibberdigibbit" (Rodney's term) accosted him outside the bakery on an otherwise nondescript Thursday and persuaded him to volunteer for the Democratic party. "If you don't," she'd said, eyes wide, "it'll be clear you just hate . . . everything."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Election Eve

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dogeared](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dogeared/gifts).



They go to bed early, November 3 – John's working the polls next morning at 6am, and Rodney's driving old people to vote, a situation that is so completely insane Rodney hasn't stopped talking about it ever since the twenty-year old "flibberdigibbit" (Rodney's term) accosted him outside the bakery on an otherwise nondescript Thursday and persuaded him to volunteer for the Democratic party. "If you don't," she'd said, eyes wide, "it'll be clear you just hate . . . _everything_."

"I _do_ hate everything," Rodney points out as he crawls into bed beside John. "Why do I care if she thinks I hate everything? I hate everything!"

"Even me?" John asks, licking his pencil and filling in three down on the crossword puzzle – 'titular.'

Rodney humphs, arranging the duvet. "No." He wriggles around, and his sock-clad feet bump John's. "Not much."

John snorts.

It's warm in bed, thanks to flannel sheets and the hot water bottle Rodney tucked between the covers a couple of hours ago, but they're both wearing socks to ward against the chill. Rodney opens his book – he's on volume three of _Temeraire_ thanks to Ronon's insistence that everyone on the island read the series or quit hanging out with him – and sighs and generally makes all the noises he makes when he's getting comfortable. John fills in sixteen across – 'botox' – and starts a pitched battle against Rodney's toes.

"Stoppit," Rodney mumbles, engrossed in his book, but John doesn't, because John never does – he's a ninja of socked-foot wars; he always has to win when he starts one of these battles – and Rodney keeps reading but he fights back, kicking and wrestling for toe-dominance under the covers. "Gah," Rodney says at last, elbowing John in the side, "can't you just be _still_? Ever?" Which is John's cue to take the book out of Rodney's hands and throw aside his newspaper and slide cold fingers up under Rodney's shirt to make him shriek.

There's real wrestling after that, the kind that makes the bed creak and the floors groan and Cash perk up because maybe something interesting's about to happen with biscuits or walks. But it winds down eventually into soft, slow kisses – even if Rodney does mutter 'jerk' and 'loser' between each one – and John smiles against Rodney's neck as Rodney turns out the lights and flops with him, disheveled and breathing a little hard and deliciously warm every place his body touches John's.

There's quiet for a moment – a long moment; long enough for John to tune out the wind that's tugging at the storm windows, listening only for the sea – then Planck jumps on the bed and flops down, a dead weight between them, four or five times his usual volume of cat.

"I think," John whispers, "your cat is a Republican," which elicits a truly outraged squawk from Rodney's stick-up-haired head, and the wrestling starts again for a minute or two. By the time they're still - John laughing softly, _har har har_ ; Rodney nipping at his shoulder - Cash has jumped up on the bed, and there are four creatures where two belong, all jostling for space and warmth.

"We live in a madhouse," Rodney moans, and pulls the covers up over his head. "All of you. Mad."

"Shhh," John whispers. "Need your sleep. Mrs. McGarrity's on the schedule for 7am and you know how she likes you."

"I hate everyone," Rodney mumbles, but his arm, thrown possessively over John's side, belies the claim. "Ever'one. Even – " he yawns, "just shut the hell up now."

John grins, and slides his fingers to scritch just below the waistband of Rodney's boxers, but does as he's bid.


End file.
